


What Doesn't Bend, Breaks

by elrhiarhodan



Series: The Wonder(ful) Years Verse [20]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, M/M, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:48:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the Wonder(ful) Years ‘verse. It’s 1996, and things aren’t going so well for Peter and Neal in the White Collar unit. Neal’s been offered an assignment that will take him away from Peter for a long, long time, an assignment that could make his career or shatter their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Doesn't Bend, Breaks

**Today**

The impact sent Peter staggering back. Pop – pop and then another pop. There wasn’t any pain, just a sudden loss of everything. Light and air and stability. As his world went dark, Peter’s last thought was, _Neal, I’m sorry._

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**A Friday Afternoon, Five Months Ago**

“Caffrey, my office.” Neal looked up. Hughes was on the balcony, two fingers crooked to summon him. 

“Uh oh, looks like The Blue Eyed Boy’s in trouble,” Amy Grainger, the agent at the desk next to his, commented in a stage whisper. 

Neal shrugged. He was used to it. There were few field agents in the White Collar division who didn’t actively dislike him. Actually, there was only one – Peter. The rest wouldn’t piss on him if he were on fire. It was bizarre, to be so unable to win over people, to have no friends – or at least no one he could actually call “friend.”

At least the higher-ups didn’t feel that way, though lately Neal was beginning to wonder. Hughes’ summons, the tone of command, wasn’t particularly different from how he addressed any other agent. But still, his stomach knotted a bit. He couldn’t imagine what was wrong.

Hughes was waiting and Neal bounded up the stairs in a display of eagerness that wasn’t completely real.

“Sir?”

Hughes gestured to his office, where two other agents were waiting. They were introduced as Andrew Harper and Deborah Itani from Organized Crime. Neal gave them his most practiced smile. They didn’t seem impressed.

“He looks awfully young, Hughes.” That was from Harper.

“How old are you, Caffrey?”

“Thirty-one.”

Itani was flipping through a file. “Says here that you were in private practice for three years after law school, partner track at a white shoe firm before you joined the FBI. What were you, some kind of prodigy?”

Hughes looked at Neal and shrugged. So he answered. “Yes, actually.”

She made a thoroughly non-committal noise. Harper said nothing. 

“Agent Hughes tells me that you’re fluent in Japanese.” Itani asked in that language.

“Yes, in both _Tōkyō-shiki_ and _Keihan-shiki_.” Neal replied in Japanese.

Now she seemed a little impressed. “And yet, you never lived in Japan.”

Neal wasn’t sure how to answer without giving offense. “I like languages, and my mother lived there for a number of years, so I decided to learn as much as I could.”

“How many languages do you speak, Agent Caffrey?” There was a belligerent tone to Harper’s question, which was in English. 

Neal decided he didn’t like him, so he replied honestly, and in Japanese. “Nine. I just picked up conversational Swahili.”

“Is this guy for real?” Harper looked from him to Hughes to Agent Itani, who was chuckling.

“Why don’t we all sit down and finish this discussion – in English?” Hughes moved to the small table and handed Neal a folder.

He perused the folder, waiting until the other agents were sitting before he joined them. “Who’s Nicholas Halden?”

“You.”

The knot in Neal’s stomach returned. He looked back at the file. Nicholas Halden was a highly successful hedge fund manager with fingers in a lot of unsavory pies. Off-shore accounts in the Caymans and Aruba, numbered accounts in Switzerland, Lichtenstein and Macao, business connections throughout Europe and Asia. According to the file, Halden had lived in Tokyo for the last three years, but was now based in Manhattan. On paper, the man was worth more than a small South American country.

“He’s impressive. Definitely on the shady side, but impressive.” Neal looked at the profile again. “I have to ask, why me?”

“We need an agent who speaks fluent Japanese. Preferably a Westerner.” Agent Itani laid out the case. “Also someone who’s comfortable with the trappings of wealth, which, according to your file, you are.”

Neal flushed, annoyed. Every year, he filled out all of the financial declarations the government required, but he didn’t like the idea that just anyone could look at them. His net worth was no one else’s business.

Itani chose to ignore Neal’s obvious aggravation. “This man,” she flipped the file to a photo of a middle-aged Japanese male, “is Isamu Kuroda. He is an investment banker with suspected ties to certain high ranking members of the Yakuza. We believe Kuroda is only a trusted associate, but not actually a full-fledged member of that criminal organization, and he’s laundering money through a variety of investment portfolios.”

Hughes picked up the pitch. “We want you to go undercover and convince Kuroda to invest with you. If we can get our hands on his banking information, we can begin to trace it. We can’t simply subpoena his accounts. He’ll bolt – or worse.”

“And why do you think that this Kuroda will trust me? That he’ll just turn his money over to a Westerner?” It didn’t make sense to Neal.

Hughes, though, was confident of his abilities. “Caffrey – I’ve seen you work. When you try, you can sell ice to the Eskimos.”

Neal wasn’t sure he liked that implication, but he kept listening.

Itani fed him a little more background. “Kuroda’s lived in New York for the better part of a dozen years. His wife is a second generation Japanese-American. He appears, to the casual observer, to be Westernized, but in truth, he’s very much a traditionalist. A Westerner who appreciates Japanese culture, who speaks his language, would be a very attractive tool for him to use.”

 _A tool, nice._ “What about the fact that I’ve never lived in Japan?”

“You’re getting an all expense paid crash course in Japanese culture. You’ll be sent to live in Japan for at least two months and we’ve arranged for you to stay with a Japanese family. They’ve agreed to teach you what you’ll need to know.”

“Kuroda must be quite important for the Bureau to go to these lengths.”

“He is, believe me. He’s going to be the wedge we use to force open the door on Japanese organized crime in the U.S.”

“What happens after I come back to New York – I go undercover as Nick Halden?” Neal was beginning to warm to the idea. At least until Hughes finished describing the operation.

“Yes – you’ll be going in deep. Do you understand that? You’ll become Nick Halden, you’ll have a completely different life. You should also know that Kuroda’s a paranoid son of a bitch. Once you make contact and he finds you a likely mark, you’ll be tailed, he’ll bug your apartment, clone your pager. You won’t be able to take a piss without him knowing. Until the operation is over, you’ll have to leave Neal Caffrey completely behind.”

Deep cover meant no backup on the street. There would be no utility van conveniently parked outside, picking up his conversation, filled with agents ready to ride to the rescue at the first sign of trouble. It also meant no family, and worst of all – no Peter. He didn’t think he could do that – not after so many years together.

Neal scrubbed at his face, unsure of what to say or do.

“Go home, think about it over the weekend.” Hughes’ tone was, for once, kind.

Neal looked at the agents from OC. It was clear to him that Harper was still skeptical about his abilities, but Itani was already convinced he was the perfect agent for the job. He asked if he could take the file, they agreed and he went back to his desk, bemused.

Grainger looked up when he came back. “So – are you in trouble or what?” She was at least ten years older than Neal, but most of the time she acted like she was still in high school.

“No, not in the least.” Neal masked his concern with a bright smile. “Special assignment – very hush-hush.”

She gave him sour look. “Naturally. Only the best for White Collar’s Blue Eyed Boy.”

Neal just smiled.

At home that night, Neal told Peter about the assignment. He thought there weren’t enough positive aspects to even come close to making this a feasible operation. Peter disagreed.

“This will send your career into orbit. There’s nothing you couldn’t ask for after this. Hell, they’d probably give you the entire Art Crimes division if you wanted it.”

“My career is doing just fine, thank you very much. I have no problems working in White Collar.” Not precisely true, but close enough.

Peter didn’t reply, but there was something in his eyes that made Neal worry. 

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s just that I’ve heard talk.” The words came out slowly. Peter clearly didn’t want to say anything.

“What kind of talk?”

Peter waved a hand, as if to dismiss the conversation. “It’s nothing.”

“No, it’s not nothing. Tell me.” Neal didn’t like this feeling.

There was a long pause, and Peter reluctantly filled him in. “It’s just that some people think you’re coasting.” Peter wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Huh? Coasting how?” But Neal already figured out what Peter meant. “Because of my probationary term?” Against policy, against expectation, he had taken the lead on not one, but two cold cases – neither relating to art – and had cracked them easily. Too easily for the peace of mind of some of higher ups. Ironically, there weren’t any negative marks in Neal’s file, but he had been marginalized to a great degree. 

“It’s just a lot of trash talk. Nothing important.” Peter took a sip of his beer and turned up the volume on the television.

Neal felt a little sick. It wasn’t some random gossip, because Peter didn’t listen to gossip. This was coming down from on high. He must never forget that the “B” in Bureau was short for Bureaucracy. One side didn’t like the stellar work he did – it made the veterans look bad. And now, it seems that another faction thought he wasn’t living up to his promise because he’d been reined in.

Since Friday night, when he told Peter about the assignment, there was an unfamiliar tension between them, one that Neal didn’t want to confront. They didn’t discuss the opportunity again until late on Sunday. Neal sat through the first half of the afternoon football game. The Giants were playing and Peter was apparently enjoying himself. If this was any other Sunday, he might enjoy himself too, his feet in Peter’s lap, or leaning up against him, reading or simply watching Peter. But not today. The mood between them was inexplicably hostile. He grabbed the remote and lowered the volume as the play ended and the talking heads came on.

“I’m still not sure about this. I don’t know what to do.”

Peter looked at him, and Neal couldn’t read his expression.

“It’s important work, Neal. And a great opportunity.” There was an unpleasant undercurrent in Peter’s statement

“And the work is all that matters?” Neal tried to keep his own voice even, but he may not have succeeded.

“In this case, yes.” Peter picked up the remote and turned the sound back on.

There seemed to be nothing more to be said on the subject. And yet so much more was needed. For the last few months, Neal had a bad feeling about Peter, about them – that things between them were just slipping away. But every time he tried to broach the subject, Peter dodged and deflected. 

Peter was distant, he seemed preoccupied, worried and for the first time in nearly a decade, Neal felt insecure. 

That night, Neal made one last stand. “I’ll be gone for months, Peter. We won’t be able to see each other, talk to each other. Nothing. You know what deep cover means.”

“It’s your choice, Neal. I can’t make it for you.” Peter’s tone was diffident, as if he couldn’t care less about Neal’s decision. He turned the page of the book he was reading.

“I don’t want to be apart from you for so long.” There, he said it. Like a needy spouse.

“We’ll be fine.” Peter turned off the light, rolled over and went to sleep. Neal wanted to wrap his arms around him, he wanted to be held in those arms. He wanted to turn the clock back and start this weekend over again. 

Monday morning did bring clarity – but not in a way that Neal expected. Over coffee, Peter casually devastated his world, telling him that he wasn’t suited for deep cover work. Hurt to the core, Neal left without saying another word. 

He told Hughes that he was on board with the assignment as soon as he got in, and spent most of the day in meetings and briefings. By Monday night, he was on a flight to Japan. He hadn’t spoken to Peter since that morning, not even to say goodbye.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Two Days Ago**

It was going on the longest five months of his life. 

It felt eons longer than even the time that Peter had dumped him in high school. At least back then he had Mozzie and Elizabeth, he had Aunt Ellen, he had day-to-day contact with things that were familiar. Hell, even though Peter wouldn’t talk to him, he still saw him a few times a day.

But in the world of Nicholas Halden, with the plush high rise apartment, there was no Mozzie, no Elizabeth, no late night conversations with insomniac Aunt Ellen. And Peter – he was strictly off limits. 

Neal ached from the loneliness, he ached for Peter. He ached to talk to his friend, his partner – the person he always thought of in the most forbidden way, as his *husband*. He wondered what Peter was doing. Was he missing him too? Neal tried to forget that final conversation they had that last morning, Peter’s sudden volt-face, his belief that Neal didn’t have the stones for the assignment. The apparent disintegration of everything that mattered.

Not for the first time since he graduated, Neal regretted taking the assignment with White Collar instead of Bancroft’s offer to join him at Anti-Crime. Maybe he wouldn’t have been so isolated. At least accepting a long term, deep cover assignment meant that he wouldn’t be particularly missed at the office. 

The only anchor he had was his handler, Mitchell Ross. And that was a meager thing at best. They met for a cup of coffee at The Lantern at 34th and Third Avenue once a week, usually around three in the morning when he passed along whatever recordings he made from the wire he wore. He didn’t particularly like or dislike the guy, an older agent working out of Organized Crime, but he knew what he was doing and he gave Neal both latitude and support.

Objectively, Neal liked playing the role of Nicholas Halden. He enjoyed the fact that there was no one else who could make this work like he could. It wasn’t just the language or the brains or the people skills (those helped, though), it was the whole package that Neal could bring to the table as Nick Halden. He wasn’t slimy, and Neal was able to infuse him with a certain amount of morals. He didn’t deal with drugs or guns or human trafficking, outright. But he was slick, a smooth player who didn’t ask too many questions about where his clients’ money came from, even if that money came from drugs or guns or the exploitation of human frailty. 

Itani and Harper were absolutely correct in their assessment of the suspect. He was, on the surface, very westernized, but there was a deeply traditional Japanese core that Neal was able to play against. It didn’t hurt that Kuroda was a man with tastes as refined as Neal’s, but with a penchant for the undergrowth, too. 

The two months Neal spent in Japan proved essential to his legend – but not in the ways that the FBI expected. Instead of living with a host family (relatives of Agent Itani), Neal went to Japan as the beloved stepson of Vincent Adler, not with the intention of taking over Adler’s interests, but with an eye to learn how business was conducted there. Unlike his colleagues in the FBI, Neal was easily able to win over the people who had worked for – and still worked – for his stepfather. They practically tripped over themselves to help Neal in his quest to understand the Japanese mindset – in business and at leisure. And if Neal started referring to himself as “Nick” and “Caffrey” somehow became “Halden,” no one commented.

Neal had thought it all quite ironic, but irony aside, it worked. 

Back in New York, Neal didn’t have time to catch his breath. The agents running the operation met him at JFK, his entire identity was swapped with Nick Halden’s. They took “Nick” to the posh high-rise apartment he’d be living in for the duration. It was furnished in a slick, minimalist style with a closet full of suits to match. Itani gave him a few minutes to orient himself then whisked him off to a small office set up to lend credence to his role as a powerful hedge fund manager. Neal was cautioned that both the apartment and the office could be bugged at any time, though the FBI would do its best to keep the office clean. But nothing was perfect and Neal shouldn’t relax his guard. Using the office to contact the FBI was strictly forbidden. He would meet with his handler on a regular basis, and if he needed to come in from the cold, he should use a payphone.

Within twenty-four hours, he was set to make first contact with Kuroda. 

Their initial meetings were carefully orchestrated – a casual encounter at the Asia Society at a concert and lecture on shakuhachi music, one of Kuroda’s passions, and Neal was the only Westerner present. This was not something Neal Caffrey might ever have gravitated towards, but Nick Halden appreciated both the sound and the ancient heritage of the music. There was a brief intermission, and Neal planned to casually approach Kuroda, but he was pleasantly surprised when Kuroda made the first move and came over to him.

The conversation was delicate, diplomatic and Neal was gratified to discover that the Bureau’s intel on the man was accurate. It was obvious that Kuroda was looking to cultivate him.

Among other things, they talked about the Fuke sect and the lost works of _Honkyoku_ , and the rise in popularity of the instrument among Western composers, particularly in film scores. Kuroda was bemused by the fact that shakuhachi was prominently featured in the Scottish historical epic, _Braveheart_. Before the bell signaling the end of intermission rang, they had exchanged business cards and Kuroda invited Neal to another musical event. This one was for taiko drumming at the Nippon Club. Neal reciprocated with an invitation to join him at a performance of _Turnadot_ , and their relationship was sealed.

Over the next three months, Nicholas Halden became Isamu Kuroda’s favorite companion. They talked business only occasionally, and only in the most indirect manner. Nick Halden wasn’t that interested in having Isamu Kuroda invest in his funds, nor was Isamu Kuroda interested in investing with Halden Capital Partners – on the surface. Both men knew that the other was eager to do business, but Kuroda was making Nick earn his trust and Nick (and Neal, for that matter) was a patient man. 

Neal became aware of the tail Kuroda put on him almost immediately, and not long after that he discovered the half-dozen listening devices in his apartment, which were transmitting to recording equipment in another apartment in the building. Since nothing ever happened there, he left the bugs in place. He could shake the tail whenever he needed to. 

His office was a tiny, turn-key affair in the McGraw-Hill building, staffed by a central service and secured by some fairly impressive technology. He kept it clean and FBI sweepers came in on a regular basis to double-check. Still, Neal never used the space to reach out to the FBI or his family. Deep cover was deep cover, and if he called Peter, even heard his voice, his whole facade could shatter.

It was the third time this week that Neal was having dinner with Kuroda, and he was at the point where he’d kill his own cow if it meant he could have a hamburger. But Kuroda had brought several “associates” who wanted to meet the estimable Mr. Nicholas Halden, and it wasn’t like Neal could beg off and go to McDonalds.

It was after midnight by the time the meal finished. Neal was itchy, physically and emotionally. The tape holding the wire in place was making him nuts and the tattoos briefly visible beneath the French cuffs of Kuroda-san’s guests sent his personal alarm bells screaming. Neal had met other associates of Kuroda, but none who where so blatantly part of the criminal organization. But the men were having a grand time, and when Neal suggested calling it a night, they wouldn’t hear of it. First stop was Elaine’s, where the visitors could get a taste of real New York high life, then an underground club, noisy, crowded and altogether unsavory – for the lowlife component of the evening. 

Neal wondered if Kuroda had business ties to this place – the bouncer gave him a deeply respectful bow, just a few degrees short of one due to the Emperor. But then the man, who looked like a sumo wrestler on a diet, bowed just as deeply to Kuroda’s “associates”. The one he gave to Neal was not as deep and the respect was a little ambiguous. 

Regardless, the velvet rope was unclipped and the four men were greeted by a beautiful Japanese girl with oddly dead eyes. They spent about two hours at the club, watching the girls on the stage and finishing the better part of two bottles of Chivas. Around 2:30, the special treats came around – several piles of white powder on a mirrored tray, and Neal really wanted to call it a night.

When Neal politely refused the silver spoon, Kuroda made a sharp comment about Nancy Reagan and flexible American morals, but Neal still demurred. He did notice Kuroda didn’t partake either. Kuroda’s associates didn’t say anything either, they had pretty much fallen face first into the blow.

It was close to three am when Neal finally excused himself – pleading an early morning conference call with some European investors. Truth was, he had a meeting with Mitch Ross at The Lantern, a ten minute walk from the club. Even if Kuroda had him tailed, there would be nothing unusual to report if he stopped in for a cup of coffee.

Ross was sitting in the back of the coffee shop, in the last booth and facing the doorway. Neal nodded at him before going to the men’s room to peel off the recorder. The tape took a layer of skin with it, and Neal gave the spot on his chest a quick rub to soothe the pain. The micro-cassette player captured only two hours of audio, but Neal had been able to activate it by tapping on his tie clip. Surely someday, there would have to be better technology than this. 

He came out of the bathroom and slid into the booth, next to his handler. He knew that this annoyed Ross, but there was no way that Neal was going to sit with his back to the door. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his handler not to warn him, it was that he didn’t trust _anyone._ Besides, he was able to drop the tape into Ross’ jacket instead of handing it to him directly. It might be a weird thing for two guys to sit on the same side of a booth, but at least the waitress could never say that she saw Neal give the other man anything.

“How is it going?”

“I keep thinking that Kuroda wants to discuss business, but then he backs off.”

“What about tonight? You look like you’ve been through the wars.”

Neal gave him the rundown of the evening. “It was going okay until the cocaine arrived.” 

“You could have done a line or two if you needed, then reported it. You know that there are processes in place that will protect you if you need to do things like this to maintain your cover.”

Neal shrugged. “It could have been a test, too. Kuroda seemed a little contemptuous of his friends’ lack of control.”

Mitch Ross took a moment to process that, and nodded. “Okay. It’s your call to make. When do these “friends” go back to Japan?”

“A few more days. Kuroda wants to take them golfing the day after tomorrow. I’ve been invited along. Need to make the foursome.” 

“How’s your game?”

“Passable – not great, but good enough to keep up.”

“Where are you playing?”

“Kuroda has a membership at the Wheatley, on Long Island. Tee time is at 11.”

“Which puts you back in the City by four?”

“Yeah.” Neal ran his hand through his hair, he was exhausted. This line of inquiry was strange. “Why does that matter?”

“The bosses are getting anxious – they want to see some forward progress. Thinking about bringing you in for a debrief. They want to know when you’ll be free to meet with them. I’d think that you’d have time after the game finished.”

On one hand, Neal was thrilled that he’d get a chance to step back into his own skin, even if it was for just an hour or two. On the other hand, he was enough of a professional to resent that a debriefing was needed. And it wasn’t like he’d be meeting with anyone at the Bureau’s offices. “Haven’t you been able to get anything from his computer?”

Ross grimaced. “The problem is that everything is in Japanese and the translations are ambiguous. We are going to need eyewitness reports, and until you can get Kuroda to make the investments – until you can get bank account routing numbers, we aren’t going to have any way to actually trace the money. And unless we can trace the money, we have no case.”

Neal knew that, and they had all been prepared for this to take months. “Why the anxiety now?”

“New brooms at Justice and HQ want the bosses to justify every operation.”

Neal wanted to ask Ross to tell them to pull the plug. He wanted to go home. But he didn’t. “Anything from my family?” Of course that family didn’t include the man he loved.

“Nothing new – your Aunt Ellen is in good health – we passed on your letter. That’s it.”

He stifled a sigh.

“If there’s nothing else, time to call it a day – don’t you think?”

Neal grunted his agreement and got up. He paid for his coffee and left. At four in the morning, the city was just beginning to wake up. Municipal garbage trucks rumbled by and there were a few buses, too. He felt old and tired and used up by the time he got home. No, not home. Home was an Upper West Side duplex, not the Bureau-provided apartment in a Lower Manhattan high rise. Instead of turning on the television and catching up on the news of the world, Neal collapsed face-first onto the bed, wishing for all the world that this wasn’t his life.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Today**

There was one thing that Cathy Burke feared more than anything else: the phone ringing in the middle of the night, and a stranger’s voice telling her that her son was dead. In her head, it was always a stranger, because if Peter was dead, Neal was probably dead too. That was the way it was going to be.

She never told Joe about this, she didn’t want him to share that terror.

So, when the telephone rang during the dinner hour, she answered it without a moment’s trepidation. That the voice on the other end was unfamiliar didn’t send up any warning bells. It wasn’t until the caller identified himself as Agent Reese Hughes that Cathy got the slightest hint that something was wrong.

“Mrs. Burke, I am very sorry to tell you that your son, Peter, has been shot in the line of duty.”

She crashed into a chair, her whole being suddenly numb. Startled by the noise, Joe looked up from the newspaper.

“When?”

Joe was standing beside her, listening in. “About two hours ago. He’s in surgery at Beth Israel now.”

Peter was still alive. She focused on that.

“Do you want us to send a car for you? Someone can be there in about an hour.” 

She looked up at her husband, he nodded his head.

“Thank you.” She didn’t think she could wait that long, but she also didn’t think that either of them would be able to drive into the city without cracking up. Fortunately, the driver showed up in half the promised time – she was seconded from the Resident Agency office in White Plains. With the bubble lights flashing to clear their way through traffic, they made it to the hospital within the hour. Agent Hughes was waiting for them outside of the emergency room.

“What happened?”

Peter’s boss shook his head. “We’re still trying to piece everything together. Peter was serving a warrant when the suspect pulled out a gun and shot him, then shot himself.”

“Why wasn’t my son wearing a vest?” Joe was angry and he wasn’t afraid to show it.

Hughes closed his eyes in weariness. “The subject of the warrant wasn’t the target of the investigation Peter was working on; he simply had information that was relevant to the case. We had no reason to believe he’d turn violent.”

Cathy asked a far more important question. “How is my son?”

“He was shot three times – in the chest and arm, Mrs. Burke. Peter survived the transport to the hospital. He’s still alive.”

She tried to take comfort from that blunt assessment, but she couldn’t. This was Peter, her child. “How much longer until we know more?”

Hughes shook his head, “I don’t know. The surgery could take hours.” He gestured to an agent waiting in the background and gave her instructions to take them to a private waiting area.

Cathy numbly followed the agent, but Joe stood there, still angry. “Hon, come on.”

“No – no. This isn’t right.” He stalked up to Peter’s boss. “Where’s Neal?” 

Hughes was, of course, puzzled. “Neal? You mean Agent Caffrey?”

“Yes, I mean Agent Caffrey.” Joe was practically vibrating in outrage. Cathy tried to draw him off, but her husband wouldn’t budge.

“Why would Neal need to be here?” 

“He’s Peter’s … best friend.” The pause was infinitesimal, but to Cathy’s ears, too telling. 

Hughes, thankfully, didn’t pick up on anything. “I’m aware that they are friends, but Agent Caffrey has a job to do.”

“You need to tell him, you need to do that now.” Joe kept pushing at it.

Hughes answered slowly, as if he were choosing his words with great care. “Agent Caffrey is on assignment. It would not be convenient to bring him in at this time.”

“Convenient? Convenient? Friendship is not about convenience!” 

Cathy tried to hush him. She understood Joe’s anger, but this wasn’t the time or place for him to out their son and his partner. She pulled Joe back and tried to explain to Agent Hughes without giving anything away. “Neal is as close to Peter as a brother – he practically grew up in our house. Neal was the one who decided to apply to the FBI first – back in high school. He was the one who convinced Peter to do so, too.”

Hughes frowned, a fearsome expression. “When I offered Neal a slot in my division, he did say that Peter was his best friend. But they have little to do with each other on a day-to-day basis – I thought that he may have been exaggerating.”

“So you’ll let him know what happened to Peter?” Joe persisted.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Agent Hughes looked like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he again gestured for the agent to take them to the waiting room. This time, they followed her. 

The room was private, and as the door shut, Cathy turned to her husband. “Joe – what the hell were you just thinking?”

“It’s like James and Robbie all over again. Peter’s hurt – he could die – and Neal won’t know until it’s too late.” The last word was uttered on a brokenhearted sob and he buried his face in his hands.

“Listen to me, Joseph Burke – Peter is not going to die. You understand? Your son is not going to die.”

Joe didn’t answer. His shoulders shook helplessly. Cathy wrapped her arms around him, trying as hard as possible not to give into the fear. For her own selfish reasons, she wanted Neal here, too. He would be strong for all of them.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Hughes knew that staying here at the hospital, waiting for news about Peter was not the best use of his time. There wasn’t anything he could do, and he wasn’t the type who could provide comfort to Peter’s worried family. But he couldn’t leave either. Peter was his agent, wounded while executing his orders. To leave now seemed the height of callousness.

Jack Franklin came into the waiting room and Hughes wanted to rip him to shreds. He was supposed to be part of this operation, but had begged off – he was chasing down leads for an antitrust case. Before he could say a word, Franklin apologized.

“I know I should have been there – if I had, I might have been able to stop it.” Jack’s regret was genuine.

All desire to reprimand his agent evaporated. Like he told Peter’s parents, this was a routine operation. No one would have suspected that the CEO of a brokerage firm would have an unlicensed small caliber handgun in his desk. “You wouldn’t have made a difference – or you might have been shot, too.”

“Maybe, but I should have been there.”

“Do me a favor, Jack.”

“Whatever you want, sir.”

“Go back to the office – keep things running smoothly, okay? I’ll contact you as soon as I hear anything.”

His agent looked like he wanted to protest, but in the end he left.

The waiting was interminable. Hughes went to check on the status sometime around the fifth hour, and a surgical nurse came out.

“How is he?”

“He’s stable, and they’re just about done operating. There was a lot of damage to his right lung and his collarbone was shattered.” The nurse handed him a plastic bag. “I thought you’d want to take care of these.”

The bag contained Peter’s gun, his badge and his identification folder, all marked with the dark red-brown of dried blood. He couldn’t clean Peter’s gun here, but he could do something about the rest. These were the symbols of his agent’s authority – all of their authority – and he’d be damned if they would be permanently stained with Peter’s own blood. 

The gold shield was quickly cleaned and polished, but the identification folder would have to be replaced – it was too blood-soaked to salvage. Reese made a mental note to order one from central stores. At least the ID card was laminated and could be cleaned with a damp cloth. As he pulled it out, something dropped to the floor.

He picked it up. It was a photo of a young Neal Caffrey – maybe in his early twenties; suntanned, shirtless and smiling. 

The photograph triggered the memory of Caffrey’s initial trepidation about accepting the assignment to the White Collar unit. _“Peter’s my best friend. We’ve know each other since junior high school. We were at Harvard together, too. We lived in the same house when I was at Harvard Law and Peter was at the Business School. If I end up in New York City, we’ll probably share an apartment. Is this going to be a problem?”_

After the interview at Quantico, he never really thought about that again. Burke and Caffrey rarely worked on the same case. Their strengths were different, and the four years of experience made it difficult to pair them up unless they were part of a larger operation.

Besides, despite Neal’s assertion, they didn’t actually appear to be friends. They rarely interacted in the office outside of assignments. Caffrey usually had lunch at his desk; Burke went out with the agents on his team most days. He didn’t recall ever seeing them leave together, and even if they arrived at the same time, that wasn’t anything unusual. 

And yet, this photograph – secreted away in the place where many agents kept pictures of their loved ones – answered questions he didn’t even know he had to ask. And if he had any doubts at all about Peter Burke’s relationship with Neal Caffrey, the words on the back of the photograph erased them:

It was a poem, painstakingly written out in Burke’s elegant script, each small letter perfectly formed:

_How do I love thee? Let me count the ways._  
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height  
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight  
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.  


The beauty of those words spoke volumes about what Neal was to Peter – so much more than mere friends. They had hidden themselves well and sacrificed way too much. He was always surprised that Caffrey wasn’t a favorite at the office. Oh, yes – he knew that he had made mistakes with Neal – treating him as a full-fledged agent from the start, instead of running him ragged getting coffee and files like any other probie. But Neal was charming; everything in his record pointed to a team player, a man who could make friends with anyone – he should have been able to overcome any resentment. And yet, three years in, he was isolated and unpopular.

He tucked the photo into his breast pocket. It was a pity that he couldn’t put away the problems that photo created just as easily.

“Agent Hughes? Peter Burke is out of surgery.” The surgical nurse who gave him Peter’s things was back, and she was pointing to a doctor in scrubs who was making notes on a chart. 

“You operated on my agent?”

The man looked up, “Yes. He’s in stable condition.”

Before the doctor could continue, Hughes interrupted him. “His family is in the private waiting room, can we go there so you don’t have to do this twice? I’m sure they are very anxious to hear about their son.”

Hughes made sure he had a smile on his face as they went into the private room where the Burkes were waiting. The smile didn’t appear to have any effect, as Peter’s parents looked all the more distraught. But the surgeon had good news.

“Barring infection, and with significant rehabilitation, your son should make a full recovery. He’s in recovery but check with the desk; you’ll probably be able to see him in a few hours.” At that, the surgeon left.

He watched as Peter’s parents clung to each other, relief and other emotions clearly written in every expression, ever gesture. He felt uncomfortable – a witness to something too private. As he opened the door, Peter’s father spoke.

“I’m sorry about before – about getting angry.”

He wasn’t talking about his belligerence over Peter not wearing a bullet-proof vest. “I’ll see what I can do about letting Agent Caffrey know what happened.”

The man thanked him; his gratitude was a little embarrassing. Not that it was too much, but that was needed at all.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

This darkness was terrifying, it was cold and empty, except for the pain. He wanted the sun, he wanted warmth and happiness and everything that gave his life meaning. He wanted Neal, but Neal wasn’t here, he wouldn’t be here. Peter, in a moment of rank stupidity, had once again chased him away.

_It was Monday morning, and Peter was sitting at their kitchen table having his third cup of coffee. He hadn’t been able to sleep and had gotten out of bed hours ago, sitting in kitchen and waiting for the sun to rise. The darkness and the noise from the street had a way of putting things in perspective. “Neal – don’t go.”_

_Neal looked up from his own cup of coffee, surprised. “What do you mean, don’t go.”_

_“Japan – the assignment. Don’t take it.”_

_Neal took a sip from his cup; Peter knew it was a delaying tactic. “Last night you were all gung-ho about it. What’s changed your mind?”_

_Neal’s question – his whole demeanor – was cool, distant. It hurt. So Peter chose his words with care. “I don’t want you to take this assignment because I told you to do so.”_

_“You didn’t tell me to take it, Peter.” Neal was still distant. “I think I can make up my own mind. But why do you think that I shouldn’t take it? What changed your mind?”_

_“Deep cover is difficult for even experienced agents. You’ll be completely cut off.” Peter knew he was putting his foot in it, he knew that this was all deflection and distraction. Why couldn’t he tell Neal the simple truth?_

_“Hughes thinks I can do it.” Neal sounded angry. He had every right to be. “We’ve worked together enough that he has complete confidence in my abilities.”_

_Peter knew what Neal was implying there – that Peter had no clue about what he did. They never intersected at work; in fact Peter went out of his way to distance himself from Neal at the office. And they both knew that it was beginning to affect their lives together. The easy communication that had been part of their lives for so many years had broken down. They didn’t talk much anymore, not about what mattered. In an attempt to compartmentalize their home life with the public life, they had lost something._

_It was time to speak up – nothing was worth losing Neal. But instead of saying, “I couldn’t bear it if we were apart for so long,” a different set of words came out of his mouth. “I don’t think you can handle the stress of deep cover.”_

_Neal was shocked. “Why?”_

_“You’ll be on your own, no backup, no support network. It’s just you and your handler. You’re not the type of guy who’ll do well out on his own.” Peter couldn’t believe what he was saying. “You’ll be begging to come out of the cold within a week.”_

_Neal was icy pale, hurt radiated from him. “Nice to know that you think so highly of me.”_

_“Neal, I’m – ” The apology never came. Neal placed his cup very carefully in the sink, picked up his briefcase and walked out the door._

Peter shivered, he was so cold, in so much pain. But pain meant he was alive. Neal – where was Neal?

__

Hours that should have been spent reviewing deposition testimony were consumed by his obsessive watch of Hughes’ office. He had trailed Neal out of their apartment, but missed the elevator and by the time he got to the street, Neal was nowhere in sight. He arrived at the office to find Neal already in with Hughes, shaking his hand, shaking the hands of the two agents who had been there on Friday. 

Amy Grainger stopped by his desk. He didn’t particularly care for her, not because of her aggressive sexuality, which was kind of refreshing in the male dominated Bureau, but the way she used it like a weapon. If you weren’t ready to jump her bones, you were probably impotent or queer or both. He knew that she was behind a lot of the nasty gossip in the office, most of it about Neal.

“What’s the deal with Caffrey?”

Peter shrugged. “Don’t know.”

“Funny, I’ve noticed that you haven’t taken your eyes off of Hughes’ office all day.”

“Nah, just distracted.” Peter smiled at her; he could play that game if he had to. 

She didn’t buy it. “Hmmm, thought maybe you were interested in the kiss-ass little faggot.”

Peter dropped the smile; he dropped the pretense of friendliness. “Caffrey’s a good agent, better than you’ll ever be. Even if you learned to keep your legs together and your mouth shut.” 

Grainger got a nasty look on her face, and Peter knew that all sorts of rumors would start circulating about him. He didn’t give a fuck.

She had her revenge, even if she never realized it. That brief conversation cost him his only opportunity to talk with Neal. He was escorted by the two agents, simply whisked away and out of his life.

The rest of the day was a matter of watching the clock slowing tick to five, and contrary to his work ethic, he was out of there like a shot. By time he made it home, it was way too late. Neal was gone. There was a note, though.

“Peter – 

I don’t know when I’ll be back, but remember this: 

**“In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.  
** I love thee with a love I seemed to lose  
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,  
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,  
I shall but love thee better after death. 

He didn’t know whether to rage or cry. This was his own fault – his own stupid pride. He could admit it now, he was jealous. His career was plodding along, a slow, steady pace. Yes, the higher ups had their eye on him, but at the end of the day, Neal was the one who got the plum assignments. He never thought he’d be that guy – the careerist who was diminished by his own partner’s successes.

This morning, he should have told Neal not to go – not because he didn’t think Neal couldn’t withstand the rigors of deep cover, but that he couldn’t bear to be apart for so long. Neal had the courage last night to tell him that, and he brushed him off. He dismissed the one true, the one important thing in his life because he was so fucking petty.

Now, Neal was gone. He would be for months and he had no way to contact him. 

And then the nightmares started.

There was a squeezing pressure on his legs, his upper body was immobilized and the pain came in waves. Someone was calling his name. “Peter, Peter – we need you to open your eyes.”

He didn’t want to. He preferred the dark, it didn’t hurt so much. He could pretend that Neal was with him in the dark, that he wasn’t alone because of his own stupidity.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal was antsy. There was something wrong and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He spent most of yesterday playing at being a hedge fund manager, going to non-existent meetings, working in his “office”, pretending to be something he wasn’t. Nothing unusual about that. Except that he found himself dialing Peter’s office phone on three separate occasions, stopping just before pressing that last button.

But this morning, he woke up in a cold sweat, anxious for no reason. Neal couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something was wrong. Today, Kuroda’s tail was laughably incompetent. He was tempted to turn around and formally introduce himself. But he knew that Kuroda would be offended – such aggressive behavior wouldn’t sit well. No, it wasn’t the tail that was bothering him. The feeling was nebulous, an inchoate worry.

The dread dogged him through their golf outing. The third time he hooked his shot, Kuroda asked him what was wrong.

“Sorry, Isamu-san – just one of those days.”

“Maybe you are working too hard, my friend.”

“Maybe. But money doesn’t grow on trees, and even if it did – I would still need to nurture it.” 

Kuroda gave a noncommittal grunt. “A tree that grows too quickly can lack strength; can have fatal weaknesses that remain unseen until it collapses. The slow growing tree is strong, resistant to disease.”

Neal looked at Kuroda, who was watching his guests tee off. If he wasn’t mistaken, there was a spark of humor in his normally serious demeanor. “Tell me, did you find that in a fortune cookie?”

Kuroda laughed. “Yes, actually I did. Ridiculous, isn’t it? But seriously, my friend – what is bothering you?”

“It’s nothing more than an off day. Burning the candle at both ends for too many nights.”

“Kept you out too late, I see.”

“Hmm, yeah.”

“And stopping for coffee before going home wasn’t such a bright idea.”

Neal couldn’t believe that Kuroda was acknowledging that he was having Neal followed. But he played it cool. “I had the stupid idea that I should just stay up for the rest of the night. The coffee at The Lantern is terrible, but it feels like it’s extra-caffeinated. I had a few very early meetings.”

“And it worked?”

“It seemed to, I was speaking Dutch and my clients didn’t hang up in outrage.”

“You are a man of many talents, Halden-san.” Kuroda gave him a brief, but significant bow.

Neal bowed back. This was the first time Kuroda added the honorific to his name.

Kuroda gave him a wry grin, pulled his driver out and teed off.

Although his game improved, the sense of dread never quite faded. By the time they finished up at the clubhouse and downed a few drinks, the feeling of doom was like a second, stronger heartbeat.

The ride back to Manhattan was interminable. Neal wanted to tune out the conversation, except that the conversation was about business – Kuroda’s business. Listening to the three men discuss how to move their money, Neal realized that he finally had his in. “I may be able to assist.” 

They looked at him. It was show time. He described his theoretical hedge fund, how it invested, rates of return. “But that might not be the best situation for your … situation. My personal investment portfolio is based in Aruba. The banking laws there are – how shall I put it – most favorable.”

“Hence your conversation in Dutch today.” Kuroda commented.

Neal just smiled.

“We may be interested.” Yakuza 1 turned to Yakuza 2 and had a quick, furious dialogue. Neal caught about half of it – mostly how investing with a Westerner was against their code. 

Neal pasted a smile on his lips and looked out the window, seemingly unconcerned. But by the time the car pulled up in front of his apartment building, he was confident that he had them hooked. Not just Kuroda, but the overseas organization, too.

The thoughts of operational success distracted him from the dread in his gut, but the sight of Hughes and the brass from Organized Crime waiting for him in the lobby was enough to bring it back, doubled. He didn’t acknowledge anyone, even as they joined him in the elevator. The door to his apartment on the 23rd floor opened. Mitch Ross was there, sweeper/scanner in hand.

“Place is clean, now.” There were a half-dozen listening devices in a container generating white noise. 

“I’ll have to put them back after we’ve finished.” Neal had found the bugs that Kuroda’s men had planted a few days into the start of their association. Since he never did anything of interest in this place, he let them be.

Ross nodded.

“Caffrey – if we could get started.” Deborah Itani took control of the meeting. Ross, Bancroft, Hughes and a fourth man, who no one bothered to introduce to him, sat down.

The questions flew at him – about the op, about Kuroda, his associates, his business practices. Neal answered every question with ease. He knew he was doing good work, and when he was asked about the progress of the operation, he was able to tell them about the results of this morning’s golf game. Kuroda was about to sign on, and so were his associates.

“How do you know that these men were Yakuza?” That question came from the unidentified man relaxing in his favorite armchair. The tone was slightly contemptuous.

Neal was no one’s performing circus pony – and he wasn’t going to be disrespected. “I don’t know who you are or why you’re here.” The man was mid-fifties, regulation haircut, non-descript navy blue suit – probably Brooks Brothers, equally uninspiring tie with an old food stain on it. He wasn’t FBI, Neal was sure about that. Justice Department, maybe? Neal turned away, dismissing him

Bancroft stepped in. “Neal, please – just answer the question.”

“Both men were sporting _nagasode_ on both arms.” At the blank looks from everyone but Itani and Ross, Neal explained. “Full body tattooing is a common practice in the Yakuza, and you would rarely see a complete sleeve, let alone two, on someone who was not a member of the organization. That both men had _nagasode_ is conclusive.”

The relentless questioning continued for another two hours, and by the time they were finished, Neal felt like he just ran the Yellow Brick Road again, alone. But the brass seemed very satisfied.

“We’re going to sign off on this op for another five months.”

Neal groaned inside, another five months. “I think I can close this in a week.”

“Hmm, don’t rush it, young man.” For once, Bancroft’s avuncular tones irritated him. Or maybe it was the dread he was still feeling, dread that had nothing to do with this meeting. 

“Can you hold on for another five months?” That was from Ross. As his handler, he was concerned about Neal’s ability to maintain his cover.

Neal shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “I don’t think it’s necessary but I’ll do what I have to. If this op does drag on, would it be possible to get a short break? See my family?”

“We’ll arrange something.”

Neal didn’t like the vagueness of Itani’s promise. He was going to finish this as soon as possible, have everything wrapped up in a big red bow for the higher ups. Then he was going to go home and spend the rest of his life with Peter. Even if that meant resigning from the FBI.

Everyone but Hughes left, which didn’t surprise him. Ross might have been his handler, the operation run out of Organized Crime, but Hughes was still his boss. He went to the fridge and got them both beers.

Except that Hughes pushed his away. “I don’t think you’ll want to have that.”

The dread intensified. “Sir?”

Hughes didn’t look at him, finding his hands far too interesting. 

“What’s the matter?” 

“Peter Burke was shot yesterday.”

Neal froze. He didn’t hear that correctly. “Excuse me?”

“Peter was shot while serving a warrant.”

He wanted to scream a denial, but habit – or fear – kept him outwardly calm. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Neal watched his hands shake and he placed them palms down on the table. His world cracked open and he wanted to fall into the abyss. Peter was dead. Gone and lost to him forever. He didn’t even get a chance to make things right, to tell him that he loved him, that nothing else mattered. There was nothing left for him now. He wanted Hughes to go, to leave him alone in his pain. He wanted to howl like an animal and burn the world down. He couldn’t look at Hughes a moment longer and stalked to the floor-to-ceiling window. Tears blurred the view as grief overwhelmed him. 

“When is the funeral?” His voice sounded wooden, affectless, a stranger’s voice. But he would be there, even if it completely scuttled the operation.

“Funeral? Peter’s not dead – did you think … ?” Hughes ran his hand through his hair. 

“He isn’t?” Neal spun around.

“Oh, god no. He was shot in the chest, and it was touch and go – but the doctors are cautiously optimistic that he’s going to be fine.” Hughes told him, in broad strokes, what happened.

The relief was like another body blow, and Neal had no idea how he managed to stay upright. How he managed not to break into a million pieces of joy.

“Son, you don’t have to keep pretending.” Hughes reached into breast pocket, pulling out a small square of paper. He looked at it for a moment then slid it across the table to Neal. “This was in Peter’s ID folder.”

Neal picked it up very carefully, trying not to see the flecks of rust brown on the edges. He remembered the day that photograph was taken. They were in Vero Beach for spring break, and Mozzie had taken snapshots of everyone. He had a similar picture of Peter, smiling and sunburned, in his own ID folder. He turned it over. Peter had written the opening lines of the sonnet, _their sonnet_ , on the back. “There’s nothing more to say, is there?”

“Neal, you have no idea how sorry I am.”

He was surprised at Hughes’ compassion. “Sorry for what? That you discovered the truth?”

“No, that you and Peter have been forced to live a double life.”

Neal always knew that this double life could cost him everything, but as long as he had Peter, he’d survive. “Can I finish this op before I have to resign?”

“Resign?” Hughes was definitely puzzled.

“I’m gay – you know it. Don’t ask, don’t tell – right? This isn’t the military, but the FBI’s not too keen on having faggots in their ranks.” The words were a bitter acknowledgment.

“You’re right, Neal. This isn’t the military. And my policy, the only one that counts, is ‘don’t ask, don’t care.’ You and Peter are the best agents on my team, and I’ll be damned if I lose either of you.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter floated in a universe defined by pain. He struggled against it, but his struggles were noticed and the pain went away for a bit. He wasn’t sure that he liked when that happened. Pain meant life, and when it went away, he was left in dark numbness.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Hughes left Neal, only after extracting promises from him that he wouldn’t try to see Peter until the proper safeguards were in place. He also gave Neal a cell phone – not one of those enormous bricks, but a palm-sized piece of sleek black plastic. This wasn’t something the Bureau supplied to its agents. He had bought this for Neal.

“I’ll call you as soon as we get things set up. You’ll have to shake Kuroda’s tail.”

Neal smiled, bright and shark-like. Hughes thought for a moment that Caffrey would have made a very successful con man if he wasn’t so committed to law and justice. 

“Thank you, sir. And thank you for coming to tell me about Peter.” The slick persona vanished as if it never was, and the man before him was scared, vulnerable and far too young to be shouldering all of this burden.

“Peter will be fine – I promise you that.”

Neal nodded. “Could you do me another favor for me? Could you tell Peter’s parents that I’ll be there as soon as I can?”

That was definitely something he could do. “His father was quite upset that you weren’t there.” Hughes thought there was a story behind that. “And I take it that his parents know about your … relationship.”

“Yes, since we were in college. They knew before we told them.” 

There definitely was a story there, but Hughes didn’t figure that he’d ever hear the whole thing. Just as well. He cautioned Neal again about not doing anything rash and left. He should have gone back to the office. There was probably a foot-high stack of reports that needed to be filled out and filed. But wasn’t that what probies were for? Hughes went up to the hospital instead.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Joe had sent Cathy back to the hotel where the FBI was putting them up. She put up a fight, but in the end he had been able to convince her that she wouldn’t do their son any good if she ended up in a hospital bed herself.

Peter had made it through surgery, and everyone was optimistic that he’d make a full recovery – everyone being the surgeons. They had explained that because he needed to be on a ventilator until his lung was stable, he needed to remain in deep sedation. Watching his son, he couldn’t help but feel that life was so fragile, that it could end without warning.

Peter seemed restless, and Joe wondered how deep that sedation was. He watched his son’s face, and even with the plastic tube down his throat and tape covering his mouth, he could still tell that he was in distress. The nurse said that Peter could be dreaming, and somehow that seemed to make it worse. His son was trapped in a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.

He wished that Neal was here. It was so wrong, so awfully wrong that he wasn’t. Peter’s boss said that Neal was “on assignment,” and Joe knew that Neal had been away for a while. For the first time in a dozen years, Neal hadn’t come home with Peter for the holidays. Peter said that nothing was wrong; Neal was doing something for work. 

Joe wasn’t sure if he believed his son – not that he was lying that Neal was away on assignment, but that there was nothing wrong between them. Something was definitely wrong. Cathy chalked it up to Neal’s absence, but Joe thought there was something more. And this assignment had dragged on for months. It wasn’t until a few weeks ago that Peter let it slip that Neal wasn’t living in their apartment right now. He hadn’t meant to say anything, and refused to answer any of their questions except to say that it was important work. 

Cathy had wanted to press Peter for details and he did, too. But they were both smart enough to realize whatever Neal was doing, they didn’t need the details. But the strain of that separation was written on their son’s face – the lines bracketing his mouth, the flecks of gray at his temples, the weight loss. 

Joe had felt helpless then, but more helpless now. He couldn’t stand the idea that Neal was going about his business – make that the FBI’s business – in complete ignorance. That’s what happened to his brother’s partner, Robbie, so long ago. Joe never forgot the horror of that feeling – that Robbie had come home to an empty apartment, spent the better part of a week calling hospitals and fighting with the police about a missing person’s report, only to discover that James has been buried in an unmarked grave in Potter’s Field because the thugs that bashed his head in had stolen his wallet.

He sat next to his son, talking. The docs said that talking would be good for Peter. He told him how proud he was. How Peter was the finest son any man could hope for, and how much he loved him. He talked about inconsequential things too – the prospects for the Yankees and their phenomenal new shortstop, the trip he and Cathy had planned for their fiftieth anniversary, how the house needed a new roof. He talked about things from their past – the long-gone Satchmo, how much he missed coaching Little League, the time Peter had crashed his bike into their brand new car. He talked until all the words were gone.

A nurse came in and shooed him out of the room. Joe was surprised to see Peter’s boss standing in the hallway. If possible, the man looked even older.

“How is he?”

“The same. They are going to run some tests tomorrow to see if they can take the breathing tube out.”

Agent Hughes nodded. “That’s excellent.” He started to say something else, then thought better of it, gesturing instead to a small waiting room. “Can we talk privately?”

He followed him into the room and was a little surprised when Hughes locked the door. “What’s the matter?”

“I know about Peter and Neal Caffrey.”

Later on, Joe would appreciate the man’s plain speaking, but right now he was simply shocked. But not so shocked that he couldn’t, wouldn’t defend his son and his son’s partner. “They’ve done nothing wrong.”

“No, they haven’t. And I’m damn sorry that they have had to pretend that they barely know each other at work.” Hughes sighed. “I’ve talked to Neal – he knows what’s happened.” 

Joe’s relief was profound. “When can he come see Peter?”

“We’re working on that. Neal could jeopardize his own safety, and maybe even Peter’s, if he came to visit without the proper safeguards in place.”

He wasn’t happy that Neal couldn’t come see Peter, couldn’t be with Peter through his recovery, but at least Neal wasn’t living in ignorance. “Thank you for this – for everything.”

“Peter’s a good agent, a good man. We’ll sort out what needs sorting out. Don’t worry about that.”

Joe knew just what Hughes was saying. Peter’s career – and Neal’s – was safe.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal wasn’t sure he could be patient; the need to get to Peter was all consuming. But he had one very profound barrier. Not Hughes’ instructions, not Kuroda’s tail, not even the fear that he’d somehow put Peter’s life in jeopardy by visiting.

No, Neal didn’t know what hospital Peter was in.

But he knew someone who could find Peter, and with the sleek piece of technology in his hand, he was just a phone call away. It sort of shocked him that he hadn’t thought of getting a cell phone before – it wasn’t like he couldn’t afford it. But that was a concern for another day.

Neal dialed the number, praying that someone would pick up. And someone did.

 _“Hello?”_ The voice was feminine, familiar.

“Hi, Elizabeth.”

 _“Neal? Neal? Is that you?”_ She all but squealed.

“Yeah, it’s me. Look, it’s pretty urgent. Is Mozzie around?” By his calculations, El was in her eighth month, and he probably should have asked her how she was feeling – but he didn’t have the time.

_“What’s the matter?”_

“It’s Peter.” He didn’t want to say anything more. “I really, really need to talk to Moz. Please, tell me that he’s around.”

El said she’d get him, and he waited impatiently for Moz to pick up. 

“What’s got your panties in a knot, _mon frère_?”

Neal kept it brief. “Peter’s hurt – he’s in a hospital, but they didn’t tell me which one. Can you find out for me?” 

_“Give me an hour or so. And what number are you calling from? You’re still in Manhattan, right? But my caller ID says you’re on a 516 number.”_

Hughes lived on Long Island; probably that’s where he got it. “It’s a cell phone – can you just call me back on this number?” 

Moz promised to call him as soon as he had the information. His friend might be a professor at MIT, but he still had serious street cred in the hacker community. If he couldn’t get into hospital computer systems, he’d find someone who could. 

Still, Neal was a bundle of nerves. He paced the length of his apartment, planning his next moves. There was no way – not now – that he was going to be able to stay under cover for another five months. He wasn’t going to make it another week, not with Peter so badly injured.

He paused in front of the container with Kuroda’s bugs. It was unlikely that the man had the listening station monitored, and Neal was pretty sure that he knew where it was. The tech was good, and it had a decent range. Probably the apartment three doors down. He had seen a familiar face, one of Kuroda’s tails, leaving it a few days ago. He lifted the lid and pulled one of the bugs out. The cell phone in his pocket gave a high pitched whine and he nearly dropped the damn thing.

Neal smiled as he put the bug back into the containment unit. Once Moz called him back, Neal knew just what he was going to do.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

_  
Peter was plugging away at yet another sweepstakes fraud case. It was either that or telemarketing scams. All the light, all the joy had been gone from his life these last few months and it showed. Instead of volunteering for the high profile cases, he let his desk become the dumping ground for anything that other agents didn’t want to handle._

_Despite the pedestrian work, his close rate was still the best in the office, and he knew that Hughes and the higher-ups were puzzled by his sudden lack of initiative. There were rumors that one of the team would be tapped to head up a task force on stock market boiler room scams or something equally juicy. Five months ago, he would have been ready to sell his soul for that assignment. Now he couldn’t care less._

_He was bone tired. The file in front of him made as much sense as one of the CDs Neal used to teach himself conversational Swahili. Peter tossed it back on the desk and looked at his watch. It was close to four and he wondered if anyone would notice or care if he packed it in early. Not that he had any plans. He just didn’t think he could sit here for another hour and see Neal’s empty desk._

_Five months without a word. He knew that being undercover meant being cut off from everything, but still … Peter shook his head, trying to dispel the hurt; Neal was doing his job, plain and simple. He just wished that his last words hadn’t been so cruel, so thoughtless._

_He was shutting down his computer and stowing the files when Hughes came out of his office and called for him. Grainger and Franklin were out on surveillance duty, so no one was there to make a snide remark. Hughes didn’t give him the double finger point, which could mean … what? Something good? Something bad?_

_Peter went up to his boss’ office, his feet strangely heavy. Hughes gestured for him to take a seat. There was definitely a feeling of dread growing in his gut._

_“What’s the matter, sir?”_

_“You and Neal Caffrey – you were friends, right?”_

_Peter swallowed hard; he didn’t like that ‘were’. “We’ve known each other since elementary school.”_

_Hughes nodded. “I think Caffrey said you roomed together when you were in grad school at Harvard.”_

_“That’s right.”_

_“You don’t seem very close now, though.”_

_**Where was this going? Did someone out them?** “We thought it best not to bring our friendship into the office.”_

_Hughes nodded and frowned. “That was probably for the best.” The frown got deeper. “You do know that Caffrey has been on assignment – deep cover, right?”_

_“Yes.” His throat was dry and his voice broke on a whisper. He swallowed again and repeated himself. “Yes. Neal had asked my opinion of it the weekend before he left.” Hughes didn’t say and Peter’s gut roiled. “Sir?”_

_Hughes gave him a sad, sympathetic look. “I have some bad news, son.”_

_Peter knew just what that bad news was. “How …?” There were a wealth of questions in that one word. How bad? How did it happen?_

_“Neal was having dinner last night with the target of the investigation and two of his ‘associates.’ There was – apparently – a falling out amongst the thieves. They killed him and Neal. They had no clue that Neal was a Federal agent.”_

_“When?” It was impossible to believe that he had been going about his day and Neal was dead. He had always thought he’d know if something happened to Neal, they were that close. But he guessed not._

_“Last night – Neal had been wearing a transmitter, the surveillance team heard it happen, but he was dead before they were able to get to him.”_

_Peter felt himself shaking. He balled his hands into fists to keep them still. “Has his aunt been told?”_

_“No. Given the sensitivity of the case, nothing has been released, not to his family. We have the suspects in custody, but one of them has claimed diplomatic immunity and the other refuses to speak English or even acknowledge the translator.”_

_“But you’re telling me?”_

_“You’re a Federal agent – we know you won’t say anything. And Neal had you listed as his primary contact in case his was –” Hughes swallowed, clearly affected by Neal’s death, “Killed in the line of duty.” He handed Peter an envelope. “Caffrey left this for you.”_

_Peter took it and stuffed it in his jacket pocket – he couldn’t read it now. “Thank you.” That was all he could say._

_“Burke, I’m sorry. It’s a hard thing to lose a friend like this.”_

_Peter got up and left. There was nothing left to do. He didn’t pause at his desk, he just kept going. Down the elevator, out the door. He passed someone he knew, but he ignored the greeting. The subway was crowded, but Peter was numb to the jostling. He was numb to everything._

_The doorman said hello as he did every night. Peter just kept going. Upstairs, to their apartment – no, not *theirs* anymore. He let himself in. It was quiet, still. Dead. Last night, Peter could still feel the echoes of Neal, the expectation that he’d be home soon – that they’d be able to pick up their lives again._

_Since Neal had left for Japan, Peter had constantly thought about how to make things better at the office. First and foremost, he was going to acknowledge his history with Neal. They were going to be friends and he’d be damned if he’d let anyone or anything come between them. Now, none of that mattered. Nothing mattered._

_He wandered through the apartment, remembering. He hadn’t wanted to move here. This was one of Adler’s properties. And it was way above his pay grade. But Neal said that his stepfather never lived here, it was an investment – like the dozens of other apartments in high class buildings around the city. There was no mortgage, just the condo fee and the property taxes. Neal was so much the voice of reason. Whatever he had been paying for his own place in Queens, he could pay here._

_There was a framed picture of them on the fireplace mantel, they were shirtless, sunburned and smiling, arms slung around each other’s shoulders. Moz had taken that photo when they had all gone to Vero Beach for Spring Break. He had half of a smaller version of it in his ID folder, tucked behind his FBI credentials. Neal had the other half. Peter suddenly, desperately needed to see that – to see Neal’s private commitment to him._

_The ID folder and Neal’s service weapon were in the safe in their bedroom closet. Peter stood in the doorway, breathing in the smell of fine wool, good leather, a touch of shoe polish and starched cotton. All scents that made up Neal Caffrey. He pushed aside a few jackets, exposing the build-in safe. Peter fished out his keys; this wasn’t the first time he had opened it since Neal went under cover. He would look at Neal’s ID, the relics of Neal’s father, a few of the more risqué photos that Moz had taken – including one where they were kissing – and try to console himself that their separation was only temporary._

_But it wasn’t – not anymore._

_Peter pulled out the ID folder and slipped his fingers into the space behind the credentials. There was nothing there. No photograph, no reminder of that bright, perfect day._

_There was a sound – harsh and violent. It came from his own throat, he couldn’t breath for the grief. He was choking on it, gagging.  
_  


Someone was calling his name; someone was here – violating the privacy of his pain. He tried to push them away but he couldn’t move.

“Peter – Peter. You need to breathe. That’s it – take a breath.”

He struggled, and it hurt. It hurt so damn much.

Someone wet his lips. It was cold and he shivered.

“Open your eyes, Peter. Come on, look at me.” The voice was unfamiliar, and he flinched as a hand gently tapped his cheeks. “Come on, Peter.”

It was a struggle, but he did open his eyes and was confused by the whiteness. This wasn’t his closet – it wasn’t in their apartment. The face above him, dark and round and smiling, was a stranger’s face.

“Welcome back, Agent Burke.”

_Where had he been?_

“Are you in a lot of pain?”

Peter swallowed. His throat felt like fire, like he’d been punched in the larynx and his whole upper body was pounding. He still managed to get out a single word, “Yes.”

“Okay, we’ll give you something to take the edge off.” Someone fiddled with his IV and there was almost instantaneous relief.

“Neal? I need to see Neal.” Peter was convinced that Neal was dead – that he was waking up from something else, that it wasn’t simply a nightmare. “Please, bring Neal.”

The doctor left and he could make out a conversation. The word “Neal” was prominent. A few moments later, the doctor came back. “Neal isn’t here right now, but there are a few other people who’d like to see you. Are you up to it?”

Peter was floating from the drugs, and it hurt like hell to nod, but he somehow managed to agree. The nurses cleaned him up and pulled back the curtain when they finished. His parents were there, his mother smiling, his father too. They both looked terrible.

“Son -” Dad reached out to him, and he tried to grab his hand, but his arm was immobilized. “You’ve given us quite a scare.”

Mom was on the other side of the bed; she bent over and gently kissed his cheek. 

“What happened?” It hurt to talk.

“You were shot.” Dad’s hand hovered over his chest and shoulder. “Afraid your pitching days are over for good.”

Peter tried to laugh. But it all seemed so unreal. He did have vague memories of someone pulling a gun on him, of the pain and the sense of loss, then the black emptiness of regret. “Neal?” He felt the rising tide of panic. Neal was dead, wasn’t he?

“I spoke with Agent Hughes, he said that he’s talked with Neal – they’ll try to get him in to see you as soon as possible.” 

“Alive? Neal’s alive?”

“Oh, sweetie – of course he is.” Mom stroked his brow. “Is that what you’ve been having nightmares about?” She always knew when his sleep was troubled.

He tried to nod. “Yes. You sure he’s all right?”

“Yes, he’s fine.” Dad was smiling – and he’d never lie to him. But there was something else there, something his drug-fogged brain wasn’t letting him process.

A nurse came in and told his folks that they needed to let him rest. They both kissed him and promised to be back as soon as they could. He let the inexorable pull of the drugs wash over him, but this time he wasn’t afraid. Neal would be here soon. Neal was all right.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal double checked his appearance, power tie, power suit, perfectly placed pocket square, shoes polished to a mirror shine. Everything was perfect. He picked up the baggie with Kuroda’s bugs and his cell phone and took one last look around the apartment. If everything went according to plan, this would be the last time he saw it.

The limo ride uptown was just long enough for Neal to work himself into a tightly controlled rage. The right level of anger was imperative; too much and he’d lose the advantage, too little and he’d look like he was indulging in a fit of pique. By the time the driver pulled up to the building that housed Kuroda’s offices on Madison and Fifty-Sixth, Neal was wrapped in a perfectly tailored cloak of self-righteous anger.

As he stepped out of the car, there was another vehicle pulling up. Neal recognized the driver and the passenger – both were frequent tails. He scowled at them, meeting their eyes for the first time. Even through the windshield, he could see their appalled reaction. _Good._

Kuroda’s offices were on the 35th floor, and the brief elevator ride helped Neal maintain the icy rage. The receptionist recognized him and murmured a greeting. Neal discarded custom, cultural mores and even good manners.

“Tell Kuroda I need to see him. Now.” His voice was harsh, startling the young woman. 

“Is everything all right, Halden-san?” She bowed her head and Neal thought she looked like she was prepared for execution. 

He felt a little sorry of her, but he wouldn’t let sympathy interfere with his mission. “My business is with your boss. I am running out of patience.”

She dialed an extension and spoke rapidly. Neal figured she was talking with Kuroda’s personal assistant, or his assistant’s assistant. He tapped his foot and crossed his arms, letting all of his rude, Western impatience show.

She hung up the phone and apologetically told him that someone would be out to see him right away. Neal glared at her, and she flushed. Someone did come, not Kuroda of course, but his primary assistant. He bowed to just the correct level of deference. Neal did not return the courtesy. The man was startled – Halden-san had always been the epitome of proper manners and respect. He led Neal back to Kuroda’s corner office, introduced him and quietly closed the door behind him.

“My friend, what is the matter that you have sent my receptionist to tears?”

“We. Are. Not. Friends.” Neal gritted out. He was gratified by the puzzled, then concerned look on Kuroda’s face.

“What do you mean?”

Neal pulled the bag with the listening devices out of his pocket and slapped them down on Kuroda’s desk. “Friends don’t invade their friend’s privacy. Friends don’t have their friends tailed every time they leave their apartment. Friends don’t plant bugs in their friend’s apartment.”

Kuroda blinked.

“I knew you were having me tailed and you even admitted it to me yesterday, but I didn’t let it bother me. Men of your stature –” Neal let the flattery sink in. “Can’t be too careful. But bugging my apartment is unacceptable.”

“Nick, please – ” 

His plan was working – Kuroda was upset, it wouldn’t take much to edge him into shame. “Last night, I bought this –” Neal pulled out the little cell phone, “and I was about to call a friend when it started making all sorts of strange noises.” He passed the phone over the bugs, and it emitted a series of loud pops and crackles. “But only when I was standing near my bedside lamp. I went into my living room and it was fine until I was next to the reading lamp. I thought it might be a problem from the incandescent lamps, so I went into the kitchen. Oddly enough, the problem started when I was standing right next to the telephone. I did a little investigating and found these.” He pushed the bag across the polished wood desk.

Kuroda was pale, except for the high flush along his cheekbones. “You have to understand …”

“No, actually, I don’t. There is no reason you needed to invade my personal space, to destroy the sanctity of my home. We were not business associates, we were friends.” He put a special emphasis on the past tense.

“We are still friends, you have my deepest apologies. My security team is a little over zealous.”

“Your security team would never take these steps without your express authorization.” 

Kuroda bowed his head stiffly towards Neal.

“You do not respect me, that is clear. I don’t see how we can continue our association.” Neal turned to leave. This was it, he either just wrecked the entire operation or he was about to bring it home.

“No, no – please, Halden-san – I am most terribly sorry.” There was an undercurrent of desperation there.

Neal turned back, and shook his head. “You may be sorry, but that doesn’t mean anything.” Now he just insulted Kuroda’s word.

“How can I prove it? How can I prove that I do trust you?”

Neal shook his head. He had to reel Kuroda in slowly, carefully. “I don’t know that you can. You’ve treated me like a criminal, the most untrustworthy of men.” His tone softened, he let sadness creep into his voice. “I admired you and you shamed me.” Neal again turned to leave.

Kuroda reached out. “Please, Halden-san – Nicholas. Let me prove that I do trust you.”

 _Gotcha_ Neal gave Kuroda a quizzical look. “I don’t think you can.”

The man licked his lips, “What if I invest with you? What if my friends took you up on your offer from the other night? Will that prove that I trust you?”

Neal paused, pretending to consider the matter. “Our relationship isn’t – wasn’t – based on business. I should never have mentioned it.”

“But you did – and your business is something important to you, something you value. Let me invest. Let me win back your trust.”

He let a crucial few seconds tick by and then nodded. “Okay. I’ll have my assistant courier over the paperwork. I’ll move on it when I get back.”

“Back? Where are you going?”

“I have some business that will take me out of town the next few weeks. When I get back, we’ll talk about what you want to invest.” Neal hoped he wasn’t overplaying the hard-to-get card.

“Weeks?” There was a nice touch of panic there. “Can’t we do this now?”

“Now?”

“Yes – by computer. Certainly you are using a computer to manage your accounts?”

Neal chuckled. “It’s 1997, of course I am!”

“Well, can you do it here?”

He looked over Kuroda’s system – a top of the line IBM, color monitor and if he wasn’t mistaken, an Ethernet line. “Do you have a connection to the Internet?” The FBI tech guys had set up a portal that Neal could telnet into just for this purpose. 

“Certainly – my office is on the cutting edge of technology.” Kuroda advised, smiling. He was clearly pleased that Neal was going to forgive him for his lack of trust. Instead of directing him to the other computer in the room, he gestured for Neal to sit down at his desk, a singular honor.

It took just a few moments for Neal to get access to the portal. “How do you want to do this, Kuroda-san? My hedge fund has room for investors or I can manage your money directly through my Aruba accounts. The minimum investment is five million U.S. You can come in directly or indirectly.” The last was said most carefully, he was all but offering to launder money. 

Kuroda thought for a moment and then smiled. “How about both?”

It was hard, but Neal managed to keep the triumph off his face. He set up the accounts and stood up, gesturing for Kuroda to sit. “You’ll need to enter your account information and routing numbers.” Kuroda would probably have given them to Neal directly, but it was better this way.

“All done!” Kuroda actually beamed at him; his pleasure was a little disconcerting.

Neal reached out and hit the Enter key. He held his breath. It wouldn’t be good if the portal failed. But it didn’t. A minute later a “confirmation” appeared on the screen.

“All is forgiven now, Halden-san?”

Neal gave Kuroda a brief smile and a nod. “You won’t have these bugs put back, right?”

Kuroda picked up a small bronze statue – a Louis Icart dancer – and smashed them. Neal winced; the piece was delicate and didn’t deserve to be handled like that. “I promise.”

“Thank you – and you’ll tell your security people to stop following me?”

Kuroda picked up the phone, and Neal listened as orders were given to leave Nick Halden alone. Neal trusted that the person at the other end was the security chief, and not some random worker.

Neal bowed to Kuroda, a gesture of thanks and renewed respect. Kuroda stood up and bowed back. “You have my deepest apologies – I greatly overstepped both the bounds of propriety and of our friendship.”

“Your apology is accepted.”

They chatted for a few more minutes, and Neal told Kuroda that he was leaving for Europe in the morning, after visiting a sick friend in the hospital. If he still had a tail, that would cover him. And the European trip would take him off the grid just long enough for the FBI to get the information they needed to bring down Kuroda and flip him like a burger on the grill.

He was on his way to the hospital, wondering if he should tell Hughes, when the cell phone started to buzz. 

“Caffrey?” It was Hughes. It looked like his internal debate was resolved.

“Sir.” 

“A little heads-up would have been nice. Agent Itani nearly had a heart attack when Kuroda’s bank data came through. Four numbered Swiss accounts – we’ve hit the jackpot.” 

“It was a spur of the moment thing.”

“You need to come in, now. We’ll need to debrief you.”

“No, not for a while.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m heading up to Beth Israel now. I am going to see Peter and you aren’t going to stop me.”

There was a telling pause. “You promised you wouldn’t do anything rash. The op isn’t over yet.”

Neal looked around, double-checking that there was no tail, no one listening. “I didn’t do anything rash.” Well, not exactly. He crossed his fingers on that one.

There was an audible hrumph on the other end of the line. “And how do you know where Peter is? I deliberately didn’t tell you.”

“I have friends – people I’ve cultivated.”

“You have a CI? When did that happen?”

Rather than lie, Neal deflected. “Sir, I don’t think this is the best time or place to have this discussion. I’ll come in tonight for a debrief, you have my word.”

Hughes grumbled a bit more. “Okay, Caffrey. And one more thing.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Good work. Knew you were the right man for the job. Very good work, Caffrey. I’m proud of you.” Hughes hung up and Neal stood there, staring at the phone and grinning like a fool.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The morning drifted by in a haze of drugs and tests. He was still in pain, it hurt to breathe too deeply, and he was bored. Daytime television sucked, but he didn’t want to tell his mother that – she liked her soaps, and since she was keeping him company for hours on end, Peter didn’t think it would be right to ask her to change the channel.

He shifted and groaned as his damaged collar bone ached.

“You okay, sweetie?”

“Yeah, Mom – I’ll be fine.” He would – the doctors assured him that in time, he’d make a full recovery. He’d probably have a weather-wise ache and there would be some loss of mobility and extension in his right arm, but for getting shot three times in the chest, he was a very lucky man. 

He rubbed at his nose, they had taken out the NG tube this morning and he was on solid food. Solid hospital food. Solid, disgusting hospital food. He’d give anything right now for a cup of his mother’s chicken soup.

His sigh was audible. His mother clicked through the channels until the television went off. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing – just uncomfortable.”

His mother knew better than to try to rearrange him. His clavicle was still fragile – more glue and titanium pins than bone.

“Missing Neal?”

Peter didn’t answer.

“Sorry, sweetie – that was a stupid question. Of course you are. You’ve been missing him for months.”

“Yeah, just wish…” He wished Neal could be here – even for a few minutes. Just so Peter could tell him he loved him, and he missed him and he needed him, and he was sorry. He shut down that train of thought. He’d start to cry soon. Hell, he was crying now. _Damn drugs._

Without a word, his mother wiped his tears away and cupped her hand against his cheek. “Close your eyes, Peter. Get some sleep.”

“All I do is sleep,” he grumbled but the protest was half-hearted. They had him walking today; he barely made it halfway up the hall.

“Peter, rest.”

“You should go home, Mom. You and Dad. You don’t need to spend every minute by my bedside.”

“You’re our son; we’re not leaving you here alone. Just close your eyes and sleep.”

He obeyed her. It wasn’t like there was anything else to do. The steady click-click of her knitting needles was a familiar, soothing rhythm.

Peter opened his eyes again. The room was darker than it was a few minutes ago. Or maybe more than a few minutes. The clock on the wall read 4:25, so at least three hours had passed. He licked his lips. His mouth was bone dry and his throat still ached from the ventilator tube. 

Someone was holding his hand.

“Hey there, sleepy head.”

It was Neal – or Neal’s voice. Peter was afraid he was still dreaming. This was familiar. How many times over the last five months had he dreamed about waking up next to Neal, only to find that he was still asleep? He shut his eyes again.

“No, no – no more of that.” 

His hand was suddenly empty, chilled. But there was someone standing over him, gently wiping his face with a warm, wet washcloth. Peter had to open his eyes. Neal was there, a tentative smile on his lips and worry in his eyes.

Peter reached up, cupping Neal’s cheek. “You’re really here.”

Neal took his hand, “They couldn’t keep me away.”

“You’re not in trouble, right?” 

“Nah – I’ve got it all covered. Hughes knows where I am.” 

There was so much Peter wanted to say, but he couldn’t, the words he rehearsed over the last five months forgotten as emotions – beautiful and painful – filled his heart. A sob tore from his throat and the tears cascaded down his cheeks.

“Shhh, shhh. It’s all right, it’s all right.” Neal tried to soothe him but he couldn’t be soothed. 

“Sorry, so sorry Neal – I didn’t want you to go, I was so wrong. I was an idiot again.” Peter knew that his words weren’t making any sense, but he couldn’t seem to get them out right.

“Peter, it’s okay. I’m here now, it’s okay.” Neal stroked his cheek, smearing the tears. Peter stirred and tried to sit up, but it hurt too damn much, everything hurt. His heart, his head – they ached.

“I’ve got you, just relax.” Neal pressed the controls and raised Peter into a sitting position. “How’s that? Better?”

Peter nodded, and reached out for Neal, who took his hand and squeezed it. His own words were a bit broken. “I’ve missed you, too. I don’t think I could have gone on much longer without you. Without seeing you, hearing your voice, holding you in the darkness.”

“Neal…” Peter was devastated by the pain in Neal’s voice.

Then Neal did something so wonderful, so perfect that all of the pain just disappeared. In full view of anyone passing by, Neal kissed him on the lips. It wasn’t a brief, polite salute, but as beautiful and sensual a kiss as they had ever shared in the privacy of their home. Neal’s lips clung to his, his tongue flirted and retreated, his teeth nipping gently. The kiss made him dizzy, but it healed him too, restoring the parts of his soul that were worn thin and sore by loneliness and regret. 

“I love you, Peter Burke – don’t ever forget that.” 

Neal kissed him again and Peter groaned, part unbelievable arousal, part post-surgical pain. Neal pulled back and all Peter could see was the blueness of his lover’s eyes.

“Love you, too, Neal Caffrey.” 

Neal sat down, holding his hand against his lips so carefully that it caused another, sweeter ache.

There was still so much he wanted to say, he needed to tell Neal, but he was strangely contented to just lie back and let Neal’s presence, his love and affection fill the room. Words, even words of love, were just unnecessary.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Hughes couldn’t just let Neal roam free. There was no guarantee that Kuroda or his associates wouldn’t trail his agent to the hospital. Yet, it took almost three hours before he could break loose of his meetings, most of which concerned the data pouring in from Neal’s endgame with Kuroda.

Not that Neal would be wandering around the city, looking for trouble. He’d be at Peter’s bedside, of course.

It still amazed him that these two agents had been conducting a clandestine romance for more than three years – probably much longer, given the hints that Caffrey dropped during their initial interview and from what Peter’s father had said. It didn’t bother him that both men were, well, men. As long as no laws were being broken, he always believed in live and let live. 

The Bureau did have an intradepartmental fraternization policy, and office romances were highly frowned upon, of course. But in a way, classifying Burke and Caffrey’s relationship as a sleazy office romance seemed wrong, and he’d defend both agents, their record and their right to be together all the way up to the Director himself.

Hughes laughed at himself; he was apparently an enlightened, liberal romantic.

Bancroft, ignorant of anything other than the success of Neal’s undercover assignment, was already making noises about poaching him for his team. It might not be a bad idea. Neal deserved a promotion, he deserved better than the self-imposed gulag he was currently working in, and if Bancroft would agree that Neal could be loaned back to White Collar, he’d push the boy to take the reassignment.

The path to Peter’s room was familiar, and Hughes navigated it without thought. The door was open, but he stopped, just a little shocked. Neal was there, at Peter’s side. Well, more than at his side, he was kissing Peter. Peter was kissing him back.

Hughes reminded himself that he was an enlightened, liberal romantic and stepped back out of the room. After everything that they’d been through, Burke and Caffrey deserved a little privacy.

__

FIN


End file.
